eglowworm
The glowworm is seen in the story. In the story, you can point to the glowworm at the side of the road. You can hear the Slovenian poet say, "Look, it's a glowworm. It brings happiness. Use it." However, it is not the figure in the story, or even the story itself. It is the fact of the story existing.
eglowworm
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mike-amanita:

#fern and #phenix | photo by Oleg Vereschagin | #amanita #sacred #tattoo #2013
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persephon-y:

nubbsgalore:

astrophotography by matt payne in coloardo and oregon. the panoramas seen here are created by stitching up to twenty photos together. (see also: previous astrophotography)  

We are so tiny

The Man Watching  By Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can’t bear without a friend, I can’t love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on  across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,  is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!  What fights with us is so great.  If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm,  we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it’s with small things,  and the triumph itself makes us small.  What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us.  I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestlers’ sinews  grew long like metal strings,  he felt them under his fingers  like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel  (who often simply declined the fight)  went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand,  that kneaded him as if to change his shape.  Winning does not tempt that man.  This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,  by constantly greater beings.
persephon-y:

nubbsgalore:

astrophotography by matt payne in coloardo and oregon. the panoramas seen here are created by stitching up to twenty photos together. (see also: previous astrophotography)  

We are so tiny

The Man Watching  By Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can’t bear without a friend, I can’t love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on  across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,  is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!  What fights with us is so great.  If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm,  we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it’s with small things,  and the triumph itself makes us small.  What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us.  I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestlers’ sinews  grew long like metal strings,  he felt them under his fingers  like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel  (who often simply declined the fight)  went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand,  that kneaded him as if to change his shape.  Winning does not tempt that man.  This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,  by constantly greater beings.
persephon-y:

nubbsgalore:

astrophotography by matt payne in coloardo and oregon. the panoramas seen here are created by stitching up to twenty photos together. (see also: previous astrophotography)  

We are so tiny

The Man Watching  By Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can’t bear without a friend, I can’t love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on  across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,  is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!  What fights with us is so great.  If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm,  we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it’s with small things,  and the triumph itself makes us small.  What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us.  I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestlers’ sinews  grew long like metal strings,  he felt them under his fingers  like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel  (who often simply declined the fight)  went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand,  that kneaded him as if to change his shape.  Winning does not tempt that man.  This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,  by constantly greater beings.
persephon-y:

nubbsgalore:

astrophotography by matt payne in coloardo and oregon. the panoramas seen here are created by stitching up to twenty photos together. (see also: previous astrophotography)  

We are so tiny

The Man Watching  By Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can’t bear without a friend, I can’t love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on  across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,  is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!  What fights with us is so great.  If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm,  we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it’s with small things,  and the triumph itself makes us small.  What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us.  I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestlers’ sinews  grew long like metal strings,  he felt them under his fingers  like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel  (who often simply declined the fight)  went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand,  that kneaded him as if to change his shape.  Winning does not tempt that man.  This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,  by constantly greater beings.
persephon-y:

nubbsgalore:

astrophotography by matt payne in coloardo and oregon. the panoramas seen here are created by stitching up to twenty photos together. (see also: previous astrophotography)  

We are so tiny

The Man Watching  By Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can’t bear without a friend, I can’t love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on  across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,  is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!  What fights with us is so great.  If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm,  we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it’s with small things,  and the triumph itself makes us small.  What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us.  I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestlers’ sinews  grew long like metal strings,  he felt them under his fingers  like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel  (who often simply declined the fight)  went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand,  that kneaded him as if to change his shape.  Winning does not tempt that man.  This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,  by constantly greater beings.
persephon-y:

nubbsgalore:

astrophotography by matt payne in coloardo and oregon. the panoramas seen here are created by stitching up to twenty photos together. (see also: previous astrophotography)  

We are so tiny

The Man Watching  By Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can’t bear without a friend, I can’t love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on  across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,  is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!  What fights with us is so great.  If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm,  we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it’s with small things,  and the triumph itself makes us small.  What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us.  I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestlers’ sinews  grew long like metal strings,  he felt them under his fingers  like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel  (who often simply declined the fight)  went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand,  that kneaded him as if to change his shape.  Winning does not tempt that man.  This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,  by constantly greater beings.
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brightandmorningstar:

#sacredgeometry
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oldtimesgaze:

Lucia Joyce dancing at Bullier Ball, Paris, May 1929.
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inneroptics:

jacques-henri-lartigue
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Agnès Varda and her daughter on the beach.